Deliver Us from Evil: Beyond Mortality
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: Missing and extended scenes from Mortality. UPDATE: Gregson comes across a haunted young Sergeant Hopkins. Sometimes, you wish you didn't have to investigate, because you don't always like what you find...
1. A Time for Everything

**Author's Note:**

All right, here we are—the bonus material for _Mortality_! Updates will, as always, be irregular. Please do bear in mind that I will be writing this material as I _edit_ the book. In other words, I'm putting more effort into these scenes than I do for my usual vignettes. Also, this first entry is probably the chronologically last bit of extra material for the book. Enjoy!

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_© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire._

_All rights reserved._

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**==1. A Time for Everything==**

**Characters**: Sherlock, Mycroft  
**Rating**: T  
**Word Count**: 835  
**Warnings**: Brief discussion of suicide.  
**Setting**: Chapter 25: Together. The Holmes brothers are having their heart-to-heart before they leave Baker Street to be chased by Moran.

"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock murmured fondly. He could not recall when he had last seen his brother cry, but certainly he must have been a child. Watson labelled him as stoic on occasion—even "positively inhuman," during the Sholto Case—but Sherlock's reserve had always paled in comparison to Mycroft's. To see his elder brother shedding tears now… Sherlock was compelled to avert his gaze before he followed suit.

"Do you know," he said at last, "I have spent the evening contemplating the events of the past two months? Coupled with some remonstrance on Lestrade's part, I have come to some sobering conclusions."

"If they have taught you to take better care of yourself—" Mycroft began sternly.

"Mycroft, please." Sherlock sighed and settled further back in his chair. "What I experienced was horrific, a fate I should not wish upon even those who inflicted it, and Lestrade has given me some idea of the evil that has come of it all." He grimaced as his chest began to ache at the mere thought of it. "I deeply regret that I have not been the only one to suffer for my actions."

It did hurt. Terribly. "A benefactor of the race," Watson had called him just two months earlier, though it seemed a lifetime ago. But how could that be when his recklessness led to the injuries—even deaths—of others?

Mycroft sighed, as well. "Sherlock, in the end, who is to say that all this is truly your fault? You might have been kidnapped or even killed regardless of where you were—being caught out in the early hours of the morning might simply have hastened events that would have happened no matter what."

Sherlock clamped his hand over his mouth against the bile that rose in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing the acid back down. When he was able to speak again, it was only in a broken voice with which he was all too familiar. "Nevertheless, brother mine, I am well and truly _sorry_."

"I have already forgiven you, _mon petite __frère_," the elder brother said gently. "And I shall feel the better for hearing these conclusions you've drawn."

The younger inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "Very well. I… I do not think I realised until now just how much I have taken my own life for granted." Confound his voice for being so shaky… "I have been at Death's door before now, but never as severely and constantly as I have been of late. I am… not immortal." He chuckled—the sound was hollow to his own ears—and shook his head. "Fancy that, eh?

Mycroft said nothing, merely watched him steadily.

Sherlock met his brother's eyes and focused on them. "I freely confess," he murmured, "that in the past, I have contemplated taking my own life."

Mycroft's expression was sorrowful but unsurprised. His brother was the only man to whom Sherlock could admit that, the only man aside from Watson who could understand it… And Sherlock would never burden his dearest friend with such a confidence.

"I considered my life not worth living," Sherlock continued quietly. "Many times, in fact. But I understand something now that I did not before. Were I to die tonight, I would count my brief time on this earth to have been good." He leant forward slightly. "I have had a magnificent life, and I have been too blind, too caught up in darkness, to see it."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft stopped, shook his head, blinked. "I scarcely know what to say."

Sherlock waited a few moments, then said, "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to be born—"

"And a time to die," Mycroft finished softly. "A time to love, a time of hate, a time of war, a time of peace."

Sherlock nodded wearily. "Quite so. And _that_, brother mine, is what I have learnt."

Mycroft gave a solemn nod. "Remember it, then, Sherlock. There is nothing so terrible as having to learn a lesson a second time—it may well be too late to do you any good."

Sherlock Holmes's next words were a promise to carry him through the next several years. "I shan't forget."

"Very well." The solemn moment was broken by Mycroft rising to his feet, the action swifter than it would have been two months ago. "Now come, Sherlock. Time to put on your coat and go."

Sherlock glanced down at his state of dress—namely, his nightshirt and dressing gown—and looked back up at his brother with a raised eyebrow.

"It will have to do," Mycroft said in that brotherly tone that brooked no argument.

The brothers, the doctor, and the inspector were all piling into the cab when they heard the rattle and clip-clop of another cab approaching. Sherlock was struck with a sense of immediate danger and glanced at Watson—his friend's dark eyes were wide beneath drawn brows. "Mycroft, hurry!" Sherlock hissed.

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**Author's Note:**

And so the chase is on! ^_^ If you haven't read Chapter 25 of _Mortality_ then by all means, do so!

Originally, this scene was going to be in Chapter 25, but it was grinding the narrative to a halt. I couldn't figure out how to transition from this intensely-confidential scene to the action scene immediately following. Then I decided to bump the scene to the next chapter, which helped me move on from my writer's block. But it ended up that the scene was really jarring to the rest of the chapter, set between Sherlock's dream and his argument with Mycroft. The contrast between this scene and the argument was far too sharp, and I dropped it out of that chapter, too, deciding to return it to its original chapter and try to transition it better.

It's now significantly cut down—originally, Sherlock read the entire "a time to" passage from Ecclesiastes. This version definitely works better. I hope it works for you, too!

Next up, no idea when, but I hope to bring you the very first scenes at the Tankerville with Watson and Dick Sharon. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	2. Major Watson, Pt 1

**Author's Note:**

Well, after that fantastic start, I hoped I'd be able to churn out the next installment quickly. …no such luck. Between some writer's block, college prep, college itself, and weekend exhaustion… yup. But, finally, here we are!

All right, so! In _Mortality_ proper, we had Clash of the Titans: Mycroft vs. Moriarty. But that Clash was actually _Round 2_. The sequence you're about to read is Clash of the Titans, _Round 1_. Can you guess who our combatants are? No? Well, enjoy!

**To my reviewers:**

aragonite: SQUEEETHANKYOU! ;D I know—it's always something of a punch in the gut whenever I write Sherlock and Mycroft together, because I love them both so much and yet they're so different. They're almost always at odds because of that, even though either of them would kill to keep the other safe. It's pretty heartbreaking, really. Again, thanks so much!

Historian1912: These scenes will be in the final version, yes. Sorry if I didn't make that clear earlier… *frowns at self* Thanks muchly, and I hope you've been doing just fine in college! ;-)

MadameGiry25: Your alerts didn't work? Hmm, that's not good… I think I ought to be able to fit this into Chapter 25 pretty seamlessly, but thanks for the offer! Wow, really? After gushing over Mycroft the entire book, this is your favorite scene with him? =D I know what you mean, though: I really enjoyed drawing out that vulnerability. I seem to like to do that to these tough and/or larger-than-life figures… Yeah, the Ecclesiastes quote definitely worked better abbreviated. YES, Tankerville! Here's hoping you think it works better this time around! (Or, at least, what I have posted of it, thus far…) Thank you, darling!

Ennui Enigma: Thank you so much for… well, the entire review! *grins like an idiot and hums happily* A time to write and a time to read, indeed! =D

Ranger-Nova: Thanks so much, hon! Ah, I am SO sorry I haven't replied to your, well, birthday present, yet! =( I saw it in my inbox right before we left for a weekend getaway, and then right after we got home, college started up. It's been a frenetic two weeks for me. But I really, really LOVED my present. *tackle-hug* Are you going to post it up? It's too adorable NOT to share with the rest of the Beer fans!

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_© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire._

_All rights reserved._

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**==2. Major Watson, pt 1==**

**Characters**: Sherlock, Mycroft  
**Rating**: T  
**Word Count**: 1,704  
**Warnings**: none  
**Setting**: Chapter 4: The Highest Degree Sinister. Replaces Holmes's infection by Culverton Smith as the final scene of the chapter.

John Watson considered the possibility that he was masochistic. Two wounded limbs which ached inconsolably in inclement (especially cold) weather, and, out of all the destinations on earth, he chose to live in London. But after nearly ten years and Sherlock Holmes, he could not imagine living anywhere else.

"Are you nervous, John?"

The doctor smiled fleetingly at the avuncular chuckle and turned to his former mentor. "Perhaps. I recall Holmes mentioning the Tankerville once: he said that he'd cleared a Major Prendergast of a charge of cheating at cards."

"Prendergast!" boomed Hayter, laughing. "He still attends. They tell me he was rather a wild sort back in the day, so I'm not a bit surprised at the accusation."

Shaking his head fondly, John merely returned his gaze to the window on his side of the cab and massaged his game leg. Colonel Matthias Hayter was a tall, well-built man, hale and hearty in his middle age. John would not be a bit surprised if his onetime patient would outlive _him_. Hayter spent his so-called declining years between his Reigate estate and a town house, with an eye towards ducks in the former and an ear towards gossip in the latter. He often declared that there was nothing so entertaining as hearing of the foibles and follies of his fellow man.

In that, the Colonel certainly resembled Holmes in his odd fits of humour. Larger-than-life men, both of them. They had got on splendidly during that aborted holiday on Hayter's estate. John leant his head against the wall of the cab and allowed the Colonel's boisterous voice to flow over him, relating the latest of society in an ironical tone.

_So much for gossip being the province of women!_ John grinned briefly at the thought.

Colonel Hayter had come up from Surrey for the holidays, albeit rather early. "Hallow's Eve, All Saints, and All Souls are more interesting in the town than they are in the country," he had once told John. Now the Colonel had talked John at last into accompanying him to his club, the Tankerville. The club was designed solely for army officers.

John's own brief tenure with the army had granted him the rank of assistant-surgeon, only—he had commanded no troops, only orderlies, and his rank of Major was more honorary than actual.

But Hayter was not one to take "no" for an answer. "You shall be unfit to practise medicine much longer if you don't look after yourself, lad," he'd declared. However, whereas John would have been perfectly content with a quiet evening at home with his lovely wife, the Colonel insisted that the doctor needed a more social setting for relaxation. How Hayter could possibly consider the din of a military club to _relaxing_ was beyond John's powers to fathom.

And no sooner had the doctor stepped through the double doors of the Tankerville than he felt completely out of place. The club was on the first floor of the building—the doors opened up to a short hall which led to a flight of stairs. The outward appearance could not be more ordinary.

The inside could scarcely be less so.

The Tankerville Club, despite its plebeian name, was one of the most opulent establishments John had ever set foot in. Oak floors, cherrywood panelling, mahogany furniture, enormous chandeliers… it was more a palace in miniature than a club. Even Mycroft's precious, luxurious Diogenes could not compete with the sheer decadence of this place.

Now that John thought about it, a social setting would not have been so bad for relaxation, but John would vastly have preferred the Crooked Arrow. A friendly pint or two with Lestrade, Bradstreet, perhaps MacDonald or Morton and _possibly_ Gregson would have been just the thing.

John felt Hayter's gaze on him and knew the older man could sense the turn of his thoughts. "John," Hayter murmured warningly.

John felt bound to make the attempt. "Could we not have gone to a respectable pub?"

"Come along, m'boy." Hayter took him by the shoulders and steered him into the common room, at which point John sighed and decided to make the best of it. After all, Holmes had been dragging him around for nearly a decade—surely he could endure anything by now.

There was no lack of variety in the physical features of the club members, but most shared the same permanent tan John and Hayter bore. And all were recognisably military men in their evening suits.

Hayter's name was called, and he turned aside to greet the man, though not before a press on John's arm to follow. John ignored the summons and moved on, drinking in the vast room and its occupants with the eyes of a writer.

The ostentatious hall was a grand tribute to the wealth and power of the British Empire, maintained by the men the room serviced. But it was rather too splendid in John's eyes, so very exquisite as to be nearly effeminate. It was the very antithesis of what he and his fellow soldiers endured when they fought for Queen and country.

"I beg your pardon," said a boyish voice, "but you are new here, are you not?"

John's focus telescoped inward once more and settled upon the man before him, some three or four years his junior. The man's skin was, amusingly, much darker than his corn-silk hair, and his grey-blue eyes sparkled affably out of his bronzed, handsome face. He was about John's height and wiry rather than stocky in build.

The doctor instinctively liked him. "I am. I was invited by a friend. Major John Watson, at your service."

The bronzed face creased into something just short of a grin, revealing boyish dimples. "Major Dick Sharon, at yours."

John smiled as they shook hands. "_Dick_?"

Sharon shrugged one-shouldered. "_Richard Sharon_ always sounded too pretentious for my tastes. I enlisted under 'Dick'—rather to my dad's vexation, I might add—and that was that."

John chuckled. "I was tempted to try out 'Jack' for a change when _I_ enlisted, but I decided against it."

"Good for you," said Sharon. "You look fully a John."

John chuckled again, deciding that Major Sharon must be a favourite amongst their generation of officers. His warmth and charm was not a bit affected—the kind of man who loved life and enjoyed sharing it with others.

"You say a friend invited you?"

John nodded. "Colonel Matthias Hayter."

The other man's face brightened further. "Hayter! Well!" He clapped John on his bad shoulder, and John hid a wince as dull pangs shot down his already-pained arm. "Any friend of that old rascal is more than welcome in the Tankerville! So, where have you served?"

"India, very briefly, and Afghanistan," John said factually. "Second Afghan War. I was originally with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, but I was reattached to the 66th Berkshires."

Sharon's pale eyes went round. "Maiwand?" he all but whispered. Of course, he did not need John's confirming nod—every army man knew the fate of the 66th Berkshires. "Good heavens. And you…"

"Left shoulder. Jezail."

Sharon winced as he obviously realised that he'd clapped that exact shoulder.

"I was invalided out after Candahar," John continued, "and that was the end of my brief military career."

"Poor fellow," Sharon commiserated. "I've been in India myself since '79—I'm on a two-month furlough just now."

"I should have liked to stay in India," John mused, recalling his moments of lucidity in that Indian hospital. "For all its perils, it is a land of enchantment."

Sharon nodded. "It is that. I—"

"Dick!" someone called from a nearby table. "Are you coming? We're dealing!"

"One moment!" Sharon called back. "Well, Watson, what say you to poker?"

John shook his head, smiling. "You go ahead. Perhaps I shall join later."

"You do that," Sharon said firmly before turning toward his table. "A pleasure meeting you, Watson."

"Likewise," said John. He watched Sharon take a seat at a table filled with men in their thirties before returning his gaze to the room about him. He found his eyes searching the throng for any familiar faces, but if there were any men he had known in his pre-London life, they must have changed considerably in the past decade.

After another two minutes or so to himself, he was rejoined by Hayter. "Well, well, if you didn't want to follow me _everywhere_ this evening, I shan't hold it against you, my boy," said the Colonel. "I did notice that you were not entirely alone."

"No, I was not," John agreed. "Do you know Dick Sharon?"

"Yes, indeed, the young scoundrel." Hayter's green eyes twinkled. "Oh, there's not a devious bone in his body, bless him, but the lad enjoys the ladies' company at social events. I do hear that there's a native girl in India who has caught his eye—I suppose we shall see how distance and time affect the relationship."

As he spoke, Hayter manoeuvred John through the tables to one near a tiger skin gracing the wall with its glory. John had never before seen one so enormous, and, for a long moment, he was back in the jungles of India, watching the king of Indian beasts prowl his domain.

An amused voice broke into his reverie. "Do you like him?"

John reluctantly tore his gaze away and faced the speaker, a man taller and even more powerfully-built than Hayter. He was certainly past fifty, but even a long tenure in the Queen's service had not damaged his handsome, chiselled features. His dark, angular face could have passed for either a philosopher or a ladies' man, incredibly enough. His Prussian blue eyes danced as he regarded the newcomer.

"He is _magnificent_," John said feelingly. "Is he yours?"

The older man smiled. "He is, indeed—one of my two finest." He stroked one hind leg affectionately. "The other I must keep in my house to brag over."

John laughed outright as the man winked at him.

"Well, Hayter," the hunter boomed amiably. "I see that you have at last brought your protégé."

John felt the colour rising to his cheeks.

Hayter beamed. "I have, indeed. John, meet Colonel Sebastian Moran."

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**Author's Note:**

WHAM.

That's the kind of line that you end a _Doctor Who_ episode on, isn't it? ;D But, in all seriousness, I'm sure most or all of you saw it coming. As soon as you saw the tiger, I'm sure you saw it coming.

Now here's the problem—this is a major pain to fit into the pre-existing story. I'm still trying to work out the rest of this sequence, and transitioning it to pre-existing scenes… Lotta work. *sigh* So this will take some time, again, to update. Terribly sorry about that, but there really isn't much I can do.

Oh, and btw! I'm now on Tumblr, under my blog name "A Study in Sherlockiana." Also, keep an eye on my deviantART account, aleineskyfire, because I think there'll be some brand-new art, courtesy of college, showing up there soon. ;D

Anyhoo, you know the drill! Stay tuned AND…

_**Please review!**_


	3. Major Watson, Pt 2

**Author's Note:**

Yay! After a couple more wonderful weeks of college and a couple of depressing weekends, here's the second part to our Clash of the Titans, Round 1! Please do enjoy, because this might be the last update we'll have in a very long time! College aside, I'm hitting serious snags with _Mortality_, and NaNoWriMo is coming up!

The good news is… more Sherlock Holmes art, courtesy of being a graphic design major. Keep an eye on my deviantART accounts, both the old (aleineskyfire) and the new (astudyinsherlockiana).

More good news is the Wholmes collab Riandra and I are working on, starting with a canon-compatible (to either universe!) story called "Smith and Holmes". Not sure when it will be finished, let alone uploaded, but it's on its way, so do keep your eye on the Sherlock Holmes/Doctor Who crossover archive!

**To my reviewers:**

aragonite: Squeeeethank you so much! :D *bows* Oh, and just to let you know—I'm reading _Ghosts in the Making_ bit by bit, and one of these days, I WILL get around to reviewing it! Lestrade makes me wanna hug him, as always… Oh! And I'm _also_ reading _Gaslight Grimoire_—found it at the library! Have been reading the stories not necessarily in printing order and am enjoying them immensely… although I think my favorites have to be "The Lost Boy" and "The Red Planet League" (which I read first). Must concur with your opinion on the latter—it is _flippin' hilarious_! Except for the tail-end… that part makes me shiver, because it's almost like a jolt back to reality after so much surreal comedy, you know?

Ennui Enigma: Thanks very muchly! Yeah, poor John—it's not his environment. REIG is _so_ funny, isn't it? Glad you liked the intro to Moran! Ah, and _very_ glad you liked the very beginning! Not a part of the original draft—just something that occurred to me and I liked it, so I flew with it!

Ranger-Nova: Thank you so much, for this review and the one on the epilogue! *bounces* So thrilled that the descriptions made you feel like you were there! That's an effect I don't often get in my writing and I love it when I reach it, every once in a blue moon! I did indeed have a great birthday, the best in a very long time. And your present simply made me squee, so _do_ make sure you upload it someday! *hugs back*

MadameGiry25: Ooo, I love giving readers fresh insights! :D When you get right down to it, Watson's move to London after his discharge was a poor choice as far as health is concerned. A seaside town would have better suited his battered body. But Watson was disgraced and depressed and looking to remake himself, and London suited those considerations. So… *hugs him* Heh, didn't even think about the wounds being a kind of motif, but you're right! Thank you! Sharon… ah, I do love it when I create an OC that people enjoy! It assures me that I do have creative and not merely adaptive ability! All in all, so happy about your entire review, especially since you were the only one to read the original draft! Thank you so much, and I can't wait for more of your own epic!

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_© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire._

_All rights reserved._

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**==3. Major Watson, pt 2==**

**Characters**: Watson, Hayter, Moran (brief Lestrade, Bradstreet, and Holmes)  
**Rating**: T  
**Word Count**: 2,191  
**Warnings**: none  
**Setting**: Chapter 5. Brand new chapter 5, entitled "The Most Dangerous Men in London"

"John, meet Colonel Sebastian Moran."

A terrific explosion, such the Fenian bombing of 1885, could have rocked London at that moment, and John H. Watson would not have noticed, so shocked was he. Colonel Sebastian Moran—the retired soldier who ranked as second-in-command in Professor Moriarty's criminal empire, his services so highly prized by the Napoleon of Crime that he earned a greater income per year than the Premier of Great Britain, himself.

Having witnessed firsthand the corruption in the military, Watson had been unsurprised to learn that a retired colonel had become one of the most dangerous criminals in London. But standing here now, being introduced by his own mentor to one of his dearest friend's worst enemies… he felt a sense of betrayal. Hayter obviously did not know. And Watson would not have been able to guess it—he'd been taken in by Moran's easy affability just as Holmes said so many others had been.

"Moran," Hayter continued, oblivious to his protégé's reaction, "Major John Watson."

Something flashed so swiftly through the hunter's eyes that John _might_ have imagined it. "A pleasure to meet you, Major," Moran said, smiling and proffering his hand.

John grasped it, unthinking. But at the touch, he knew that Moran did indeed recognise his name—recognised it, and was not at all pleased to be sharing the same room with the close friend of Sherlock Holmes, let alone the same proximity. "The pleasure is all mine, Colonel," John returned, smiling. He had no acting ability, Holmes had said many times.

The doctor wished Holmes were here to see how greatly wrong he was.

"I must say," John continued amicably, "I envy you your catch. I had but one opportunity for a tiger hunt when I was in India, and I was not the man on that expedition to make a catch."

Moran's features had taken on a rather brooding appearance, but one corner of his mouth pulled back. "It is an art, lad. All hunting is art in its most primal aspect."

The hairs on the back of John's neck pricked at that, the words touching off his most fundamental danger alarms. "Indeed. I am certain there are many who would agree with you."

Moran did a sharp double take, no doubt dissecting John's statement for hidden meaning. "Quite so." His smile returned as he faced Hayter once more, and John had to give the man credit for his acting skills, if indeed he was even acting. There was simply no way to tell that the expression was anything less than genuine. "Well, Hayter. Shall we set up our game?"

Hayter's own expression was studiously neutral. "Certainly." The moment Moran's back was turned, Hayter sent John a questioning look, to which John could only respond with a minute shake of his head. Explanations would have to wait, and, when they did come, John had no notion of what to say.

"_You see, sir, Colonel Moran is the right-hand man of London's most powerful criminal—another respectable man, a former professor. Where have I got this information from? Well, Holmes has a vast knowledge of the London Underworld, sir. He told me of Moran years ago."_

Unacceptable. Ludicrous, even. John sighed noiselessly. Plotting out his account of the matter would have to wait. A game of whist was being set up, and Hayter had made it clear that he was expected to play.

John recalled Holmes once mentioning card-playing (and cheating) as one of Moran's many talents. Very well. John had not inconsiderable talent in both fields as well, having learnt the latter unwillingly from a friend in India. He fully intended to give Moran a run for his money—he might not cheat, but at least he could recognise a trick for what it was.

But as the game progressed, it became very clear that while John could play expertly, Moran was very much the master. The doctor's frustration grew throughout the game, though he hoped he was able to hide it. Ordinarily, he would have no trouble in losing to a consummate opponent—as Holmes would say, he played the game for the game's own sake—but tonight, the inevitable loss rankled.

Moran caught John's eye as they cleared up the table, and the older man laughed genially. "Already weary of whist, Watson?"

Not exactly, and hadn't Moran just enjoyed that alliteration? Even so, John had no desire to lose again to the second most dangerous man in London, and he needed a way to bow out gracefully. "I'm afraid billiards is more to my taste," John admitted.

Hayter frowned minutely.

Moran regarded John with a speculative gleam in his dark blue eyes, a gleam that did nothing to put the younger man at ease. Rather, it put him in mind all too uncomfortably of a tiger sizing up his prey. "Billiards, eh?" the colonel mused. "Would you gentlemen mind if Watson and I broke up our whist table for a game of billiards? After all, we must accommodate our guests."

Hayter did more than frown—he glared openly at Moran, who seemed not to notice.

John leant forward and smiled challengingly. "I would be delighted, sir."

Moran's eyes flashed. As the hunter led the way to the billiard tables, Hayter moved in close to John, whispering, "John, what the devil is all this about? Do you know him?"

"Not quite," John whispered back. "I shall have to explain later." He patted his benefactor's forearm reassuringly before striding ahead to the chosen table. He might be talented at cards, but he had been told that he was positively a demon at billiards.

Moran smiled predatorily across the table. "Well, Watson, are you ready?"

John all but smirked. "Quite."

* * *

"At least you know that Mr. Holmes has one of us working with him. Anyone'd think you'd be thankful for the reprieve."

Lestrade sighed and glanced over his pint at Roger Bradstreet. "You'd think, wouldn't you? Instead, I'm more worried than ever, especially with him investigating a _poisoner_. You know he isn't careful with himself." And that was that. He'd given up long ago trying to analyze the nature of his odd relationship with his odder amateur colleague.

"And Morton's not a mother hen like you are," Bradstreet said knowingly.

Lestrade did not deign to answer, settling for a half-hearted glare and a swig of his pint. He set the mug down and studied it. "If Watson was on the case with him, I wouldn't be half so worried. But the good Doctor is busy with his own profession, bless him."

"And he needs to live his own life," Bradstreet added. "He can't simply drop his practise into Anstruther's lap forever, and I'm sure he knows it, too. 'Sides, when he and the missus start a family, he won't have time to be a father, a doctor, and an assistant detective all at once. He has to choose sooner or later."

Lestrade frowned. "It's a cruel choice. He shall always be a doctor, first and foremost, but you know that he's never so alive as when he's on a case with Mr. Holmes." He rested his chin in his palm and glanced morosely around the common room of The Crooked Arrow. "Sod life for being so unfair."

"Lestrade," Bradstreet said gently, "I'm getting the feeling that there's more what's bothering you than Mr. Holmes's and Dr. Watson's problems."

Lestrade took one glance at his friend's concerned frown and sighed. "Stress, I expect. Patterson, this… mess… with a certain high-ranking criminal, the Holmes brothers, the Doctor, the move to New Scotland Yard, the baby's cold…"

"Joan has a cold?" Bradstreet interrupted. "Ellie didn't tell me that."

"Most likely because Annie hasn't had the chance to tell _her_," Lestrade all but snapped. "Joanie just came down with it." Times like this made him wish that he could be home more often, help Annie raise their children rather than watch her do it from a distance.

"The poor lass," Bradstreet said, sympathetically. He leaned back in his chair, his large body making the rickety wood creak ominously.

Lestrade nodded shortly, then pressed his palms into his eyes, feeling the first pangs of a headache. "Ever wish that you could simply fall asleep and not wake up until the current problems in your life are over?"

"I think we all wish that at some point or t'other." Bradstreet ran his mild gaze over Lestrade. "Finish that pint, Geoff, and I'll take you home."

Lestrade smirked wearily and nodded a salute. "Yes, sir."

* * *

"I… don't believe I have ever had the privilege to witness such a marvellous game." That was all Colonel Hayter had to say as he and John stepped out of the warmth of the Tankerville and into the chill of November on the Thames.

John's adrenaline was still so high that he was not yet feeling any complaint from his limbs. "I don't believe I have ever had the privilege to play against such an opponent," he returned, and nearly gave a short laugh at the double meaning. "Moran is one of those rare men who are as good as their boasting."

Hayter chuckled. "Indeed." He spotted a cab and whistled for it. "But, John, you must tell me why you two were at odds with each other."

John sighed. "Was it truly that obvious?"

"I don't think so, no. Only because I know you so well."

"Well, that's a relief." He climbed up into the cab first and waited until Hayter had climbed in and given directions before speaking again. "You of all people must know of the corruption in the army."

Hayter's expression of curiosity settled into one of solemnity. "Indeed. It's a sad thing."

"Quite. And if I told you that Moran is one strong example of that corruption?"

Hayter's thick eyebrows drew together. "That… would be difficult to believe, certainly. One tends to be able to tell a corrupt officer by their speech and mannerisms—Moran has none of the marks."

"A testament to his acting skills," Watson suggested. "Or perhaps a remnant of his former self."

"Is it Mr. Holmes who has told you this?"

"Yes, sir. Holmes has been keeping an eye on Moran's less-than-legal activities for a long time."

"Such as?"

"Cheating, theft… assassination."

"I see," Hayter said quietly.

John studied the older man and felt his chest ache. He knew what it was like to find out that a casual friend possessed a darker side, and that his kind amicability was merely a façade. "Is he a friend?" John said gently.

Hayter shook his head. "No… no. Never had the chance to know him well enough for that. But… Moran. Moran, of all people. He's a gentleman, Watson, a man of higher birth, and he is—_was_—noble. If your information is correct… what could have possessed him?"

"Greed," John mused. "The thrill of the hunt…"

Hayter looked positively ill.

"I am sorry," John murmured.

Hayter would not look at the younger man, but the regret in his voice… "As am I, my dear boy."

* * *

The music this night is fantastic.

Were Watson present, he might praise it as a _tour-de-force_ of Sherlock Holmes's skill and passion with the violin. It is a veritable storm of sound that sends the heart soaring to lofty heights and plunging to murky depths, and never once does it degrade itself to the screeches and scrapes of contemplation. This is Sherlock Holmes at his finest.

This _is_ Sherlock Holmes. This is the detective, the deductive reasoner, the "sleuth-hound," the master intellect. This is the artist, the musician, the composer. This is the mind and heart in a rare, unguarded moment of unity.

This is his soul.

At last, the final, lingering notes of the Stradivarius fade away as he is spent, physically and emotionally. The violin is lovingly returned to its case, the old black clay pipe is removed from the mantle, and Holmes finally casts himself onto the settee.

He is tired.

The case taxes his energies, and memories resurface that he would rather keep locked away. The pale, lifeless face of Victor Savage haunts him, as does the heartbreak of Emily Fitzwilliam. They were both so young.

_Not now,_ he tells himself, pushing himself back up to a sitting position and reaching for the day's post. Among the envelopes is a small package from Jabez Wilson—one corner of his mouth pulls back at the memory of the gullible but guileless pawnbroker. The brief note thanks him again for his services and offers the little box in the package as a reward.

He smiles down at the black and white ivory box. No reward was necessary, but it is a kind gesture, no matter how late. He picks up the box, slides the lid back—

_Dear God_…

—and stares at the ragged cut of deep red on his thumb. He slides the lid shut once more, and the offensive spring withdraws into the box, its fatal deed done.

He cannot help a slight shiver. Unless an antidote can be produced quickly, he has four days left to live.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

And now we come full circle, back to the original work! Ah, actually, I've been a bit apprehensive about this "new chapter," and painfully aware of the fact that it _is_ a first draft, unlike the previous piece. I feel a bit better now that I've given it a bit of polish, but I'm also aware that it probably needs work. So, you know what that means!

Suggestion tiiiime!

In all seriousness, I'm open to ideas and constructive crit here, right down to someone telling me that the Lestrade-Bradstreet scene is unnecessary! Might hurt a bit, yeah, but I'll listen.

I am happy, however, with the scene between Hayter and Watson at the end. Poor Hayter…

As I mentioned above, I've no idea when I'll post next! Very depressing… On the bright side, though, I _do_ know what I'll be posting! Something very dark and gritty that was accidentally overlooked as the book moved on. Can you guess?

We're returning to the middle of the book for a murder investigation, none other than the corpse double that had Watson so thoroughly convinced in "The First Reichenbach" (chapter 11 originally, now chapter 12). I expect this material to be spread out over several chapters and take some time to write, and I do expect it to be heartbreaking, so you've been warned. And I hope to have Hopkins taking up the investigation…

One more thing before I go! A snippet from mine and Riandra's Wholmes collab…

"_Doctor!" Holmes hissed frantically, before realising the next instant that the man was paying no attention whatsoever. Shaking his head in frustration, Holmes breathed a silent prayer and followed swiftly after, latching onto the Doctor's shoulder and pulling him up short before he could leave the TARDIS' field of protective obscurity. "I realise this isn't the best time to ask, but do you actually have any kind of plan?" He could have kicked himself for the careless oversight—he'd been so wrapped up in the wonder of his new situation, he had forgotten to apply one of his most basic professional tenets._

_The Doctor flashed him a devil-may-care grin. "Sure I do. Got one of the best men in the world as back-up while I try to talk to our friend. See? Plan."_

_Holmes shook his head in resignation. "Marvellous..."_

Remember to keep an eye out for it! ;D And do stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	4. Compassion

**Author's Note:**

D'ohhh boy. I know, I know, it's been _months_, and I am so soooorry! In all sincerity, college claimed first priority and then my muse refused to cooperate during free time. :( Made for some great SH art ( : / / astudyinsherlockiana . tumblr tagged / my-art ), but it wasn't so great for my poor novels.

On the upside (and forgive me for not posting the news sooner!), I now have a book published with MX Publishing! They accepted _Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas_, and released it in December! : / / w w w . amazon Sherlock-Holmes-Yourself-Chaotic-Christmas /dp/ 1780923384/ref =cm_cr_pr_product_top (That link will take you to the paperback, but it's also available on Kindle.)

More fun stuff after the scene! Enjoy!

**To my reviewers (who hopefully have not given up on this entirely!):**

aragonite: I'll take "speechless"! "Speechless" is good! :)

Ennui Enigma: Oh, I had fun with that subtext, as you might imagine. Oo, so glad you love Moran's line about hunting—I think he could just as easily be termed "Predator" as "Tiger". *happy sigh* I have so much fun writing him… And I'm glad you liked the scene with Lestrade & Bradstreet! Thank you!

Azolean: I never did continue replying to your reviews. *sigh* I _will_ do it someday… I do have the next message sitting somewhere on my hard drive… Oh, hey, no need to apologize! Sheesh, none at all! Glad you liked… well, let's make it a list, shall we? :) The scene w/ Mycroft & Sherlock, the "masochistic" line, the Tankerville sequence, Watson's characterization, Lestrade, Watson & Hayter… Squeeee, just thank you so much!

* * *

_© 2013 by Aleine Skyfire._

_All rights reserved._

* * *

**==4. Compassion==**

**Characters**: Gregson, Hopkins  
**Rating**: T  
**Word Count**: 540  
**Warnings**: Secondary character angst, one profanity.  
**Setting**: Sometime between the rescue and Christmas Eve.

It was past eleven. Gregson hated leaving the Yard so late, and the colder the night grew, the more he hated it. But this whole mess with Holmes and the Professor had the Yard in an uproar. They'd scarcely seen Patterson since the rescue, and Lestrade was more likely to be on Baker Street than in his office. This landed the majority of the administrative burden squarely on Gregson's shoulders.

Joy to the world.

He was approaching Ferret Face's office and noted golden light beneath the door. Odd… Lestrade had left early in the evening to check up on the Doctor… Gregson pushed the door open to find Stanley Hopkins sprawled in Lestrade's chair, his face drawn, pale, and haunted as he tilted his head up to meet Gregson's gaze.

Then Gregson remembered: Patterson had assigned Hopkins to the decoy murder case.

"Sergeant, why aren't you home yet?" Gregson said, gruff but not unkind.

The lad toyed listlessly with a sheaf of papers. "I found his family." His voice was hoarse, as if he'd been crying. Their young up-and-coming best and brightest was far too sensitive and compassionate for his own good—such emotions were luxuries you couldn't afford in Scotland Yard. Either you left that sensitivity behind you or you left the Yard. Lestrade and Bradstreet had the quality of being tough outside and ultimately tender inside without it breaking them—Doctor Watson was rather like that.

Hopkins hadn't yet found that balance.

Gregson waited.

"Took me weeks to find our doppelganger, himself," Hopkins eventually continued, his voice a bit stronger. "Clerk by the name of Thomas Whitsun. Quite plebian in origin, but he resembled Mr. Holmes enough for the Professor's men to work their magic." He looked as if he'd be sick. Gregson couldn't blame him—the corpse had been scarcely better than the handiwork of the Ripper. "Fell on hard times and right into the hands of the Moriarty Family. He became a clerk for them…" Hopkins nearly choked. "He did what they wanted! He was a good man, and he was a good worker! And they… they… dear God…"

He met Gregson's eyes, his own wide and haunted. "He had five little ones. Five. And now… not only do they _not_ have a father, but they can never know what happened to him. Sir…" Those large, innocent blue eyes pleaded with Gregson to make some sense of it all.

Perhaps _Patterson_ could, but this was beyond even Gregson's brain to comprehend.

"Let's get you home, lad," he said gently, moving over behind the desk and lifting Hopkins out of the chair. The boy felt light and nearly boneless, not protesting.

"Five," he murmured helplessly.

Gregson sighed. There was no mercy in their line of work: it made or broke a man, and there were no exceptions. "Let's get you home," he repeated, leading Hopkins out the door.

"Have papers… Patterson…"

"To hell with Patterson," Gregson said firmly. "He is out, Lestrade is out, so _I_ am ordering you home, Sergeant. Come along, now." Hopkins didn't resist. If someday, he learned to turn his sympathy to righteous anger, as Lestrade and Bradstreet did, he would most certainly be one of their best.

Something to look forward to.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I wasn't satisfied with the amount of screentime Gregson got in the original manuscript. His last speaking appearance was in Chapter 12 or 13, and that was unacceptable, given how major a character he was up to that point, if only because he provided a foil for Lestrade. I also wanted a bit more with Hopkins. Well… kill two birds with one stone and put them in a scene together? Yup, solution.

_Writing_ the solution was a bit more difficult. But after having scribbled out the first paragraph in my notebook, typing out the rest was actually incredibly easy ("incredibly" given the trouble I've had writing _anything_ of late).

According to my notes, I have two more bonus scenes to write: one between Bradstreet and Annie (because I don't have _nearly_ enough of Bradstreet and I'd like to introduce Annie sooner than her scene with Mary), and one more Moriarty & Moran (discussing the Culverton Smith project, which is left a _dangling_ end in the original manuscript). I almost feel now as if I could write those scenes soon, too—not to mention post the next installment of _The Road to Reichenbach_!

Aslan is on the move.

**TBC… **_**Please review…**_


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